Terminally Ill
by KenRik
Summary: Ryoma visits his terminally ill father at the hospital to take care of him. And as the odds would have it, there he meets the love of his life. AU. RyoSaku.


_Disclaimer: I do not own the Prince of Tennis._

_RyoSaku. TomoKai. || Tragedy Family Friendship Romance_

**_Chapter 1 Part 1_**

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When he first entered his father's room, the odor of the anesthetic drugs overwhelmed him. His eyes squinted as he turned to find his father lying unconscious on a small scruffy hospital bed, the white walls blinding him for a half second. It was a bright Sunday morning, but the tremor of his father's limbs, the bags of unrest tucked into his old, wrinkled eyes, and the light ting of the IV monitor reflected nothing but the grimness of the day and the inevitable future they both faced together alone.

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TERMINALLY ILL

Chapter 1: Morning Apathies and Late Night Calls

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"You're getting fat."

Those were the first words Ryoma uttered to his father the moment he woke up from a week long coma. Nanjiroh failed to grasp the essence of Ryoma's drawl. His tired eyes blinked warily as he looked around him. Recalling where he was and what had happened, honestly raking his languid, drug-induced brain for any information, he choked lightly (when he had tried to sigh wearily) after deciding he was not in the proper state of mind to conclude anything about anything as of the moment. And then, after about a few seconds of suspiciously eyeing the surrounding vicinity, Nanjiroh succumbed and let his head fall onto his soft pillow.

Ryoma, who had curiously watched his father dumbly look around, only raised a well-cropped brow before flipping to the next page of the day's newspaper. His handsome face scrunched in disgust at the entry now before him. Staring right back at him was himself, apparently advertising some product he refused to acknowledge. With a frown cast on his face, he chucked the newspaper to the little table in front of him. He turned to Nanjiroh, only to find the man still on his bed, and could not help but let a smirk play lightly on his lips.

"Just because you're sick, doesn't mean I'll go easy on you."

He piled on snidely as he reached into his bag for his notes. Nanjiroh groaned irritably from where he lay. Then, struggling to reach out to the red emergency button by his bed, he grumbled. A hospital personnel was inside the room soon afterwards, shocking Ryoma from the couch he had sprawled on.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion." The nurse had said before rushing towards Nanjiroh's side. The old man, with his weary eyes and dry throat, gestured for the staff to come closer. Unsurely, the woman complied. Ryoma was by her side in an instant. His eyes looked on questioningly as his father attempted to speak. Having heard nothing, Ryoma raised a brow at the nurse who faced him. She had coughed before embarrassedly telling him. "Your father wants you to know he's glaring at you."

Ryoma's face contorted into an indecipherable mess as he turned to his father, fuming. He uttered an apology to the nurse Nanjiroh had rudely disturbed before giving his father a look of utter disdain. The old man had only given him the stink eye before blowing off into a laughing fit (or what had seemed to be something like it). Ryoma was unnerved. Then, sighing, returned to his initial position of lying on the couch after piercing his father with one last dagger of a glare.

It was silent after Nanjiroh had stopped laughing (coughing). Nothing but the swooshing of the pages of Ryoma's notebook, the endless ting of the IV monitor, and the leaves outside brushing the window could be heard. Letting his eyes shut back to rest, a small smile curved into the corners of Nanjiroh's mouth as the presence of his son, watching over, comforted him.

After a day of regaining his strength, Nanjiroh was deemed fit to be released from the hospital. Ryoma slipped out the room later during the day to get his father's release forms. As he made his way towards the nurse's desk, he ran a hand through his hair exhaustedly. His face was pale from the cold and tire. He nearly cursed when he was greeted by thin air in front of the nurse's desk. He looked back and forth, lips thinning into an impatient line, looking around for anyone to see to him. Unconsciously, his fingers drummed on the desk as he waited for anyone (anything) to show up. It was during an inner battle (whether he'd leave and just return later) when wheels came screeching from the far end of the corner. Behind the wave of people surrounding a pan, a nurse followed hurriedly after them into the surgery room. Ryoma failed to catch a glimpse of the woman's face but he knew from the ruckus that someone was indeed dying. It did not take a second later that Ryoma found himself suddenly facing an old wary and wrinkled face. He would have jumped and cowered in shock had he been less of himself (or more of someone else).

"I'm sorry." The old woman, the nurse supposedly stationed, started. Her lips quivered and her voice trembled lightly as she continued. "What can I help you with, sir?"

"I just need the release forms for room 432. It's Nanjiroh Echizen's room." Ryoma managed to utter, his voice lightly shaken by surprise.

"Of course." The old woman hastily replied. Her chubby hands darted over the counter, settling some misplaced papers, before she finally managed to smile up to him. "It will be brought to your room shortly."

"Okay. Thanks." Ryoma mumbled as he turned away.

"Forgive me, sir." The nurse suddenly called out. "But are you Ryoma Echizen?"

Ryoma looked back to raise a questioning brow at her.

"Because if you don't mind, may you grace a fan from the children's cancer ward with your presence? There's one child over there who admires you sinfully so. Nothing more would liven his spirits than seeing his idol before him." She told him. Her warm smile was unwavering. Before she could continue her case, Ryoma had stopped her. And with a simple nod, he was led to the children's cancer ward during that night of dimly lit corridors and bustling night shift workers. When they reached their destination, Ryoma's face bleached at the odor that greeted them. It was nauseating. The stench of medicinal drugs clouded his senses. It was so awful he could gag.

This was one of the reasons he never liked hospitals. And honestly, he'd do his best to never come back after tomorrow.

Looking into the room, his eyes widened in wonder as several faces looked back at him in awe. He hesitated entering and had to be urged forward by the old nurse. Deep into the room, he caught sight of a block filed with posters of him and a basket of neon tennis balls. Overwhelmed and slightly embarrassed, Ryoma's pale cheeks flushed with color.

"Tomoya-kun." The nurse called out softly to the boy reading his books. His roommates shifted on their beds towards the woman's crackling voice. "You have a visitor."

The boy, Tomoya, looked up from his book and, the moment they caught sight of each other, his hazel eyes crashed with a flurry of sparkling waves.

"I'm sure you know him so an introduction won't be necessary, isn't it, Tomoya?" The old woman snickered. Ryoma stepped forward, stopping at the foot of the child's bed. Placing his hands carefully on the metal pads, (as if the bed was as fragile as the young boy) he conjured up a smile to the boy. As he stood in front of him, his brain raked itself for something proper to say. He had no idea what to tell the sprout. But all train of thought was forgot and unneeded because Tomoya had reached out to him himself and wound his arms around Ryoma. It took the athlete a second to realize the young lad was embracing him. And the realization made his face glow into a darker shade of red.

Around him, children giggled and some came to him and hugged him as well. And before Ryoma knew what was happening, he was brought to his knees, with a light "woah" on his part, under the weight of every child.

Honestly, they kind of warmed him up. And he rather liked it.

That night, instead of returning to his father's room, Ryoma fell asleep with Tomoya after what seemed like hours of conversing and storytelling. At least, that was what Nanjiroh found later on that night. He had woken up due to a light knock on the door, from an old nurse bringing in his paperwork. She then had told him about the whereabouts of his son. As well, she led Nanjiroh to the children's cancer ward. Lo and behold, there his son was, fast asleep with a couple of children dozing off around him. Unbeknownst to anyone that night, Nanjiroh's smile trembled as he watched his son surrounded by cute little faces sleep. He was about to gently take him away, to help the nurse carry each and every child to their beds, but he couldn't move. And the quivering of his lips worsened as a strong pang of worry flooded his chest. Unable to take it, he turned away. He raised a hand and kept it over his mouth, covering the unsettling image of his fear, of his grief, and hid behind the shadows.

That night, Nanjiroh did his best to muffle his cry.

The weight of his illness was torture. He still had to accept it. He thought he already had. That was all that was needed of him, to be able to cope through it well enough to manage his entities together, to make sure Ryoma was fit to live a life without him. But apparently, he was a fool. No one can ever accept dying. And him, with a son who was just at the height of his career, his son who has yet to settle down, his son who had just turned twenty-three, how could he possibly leave him alone? How could he possibly let himself die?

"Old man? What are you doing there?" A groggy voice called out from a distance. Nanjiroh looked up to find his son in a half-awake state. "What's happened to you? You're all red." He teased lightly. Before Ryoma could say anymore, he was silenced by Nanjiroh's sudden embrace. It took a moment to register the meaning of the sudden influx of warmth. But the moment it had was when Ryoma understood. Truthfully, nothing had to be said for Ryoma to understand. With an ache slowly forming in his heart, the young man buried his face into his father's tight embrace. And he thought of nothing else other than how strong his father seemed to be amidst the illness growing inside of him.

"Have you decided what you're going to do when I'm gone?" Nanjiroh asked solemnly. They had walked and settled inside the lobby filled with rows of seats. The expressions on both their faces were tired and grim.

"You don't know you're dying yet." Was Ryoma's mumbled reply. His eyes closed tiredly. People around them shuffled through the halls, their noise flittered in and then faded.

"In case," His father sighed heavily. "I want you to start thinking properly about your future. I'd at least want to make sure you aren't gay before I die."

At this, Ryoma scoffed. He turned to Nanjiroh and glared at him.

"Can't you be serious for once?" He hissed lividly, his knuckles turning white before him.

"So you're sure you're not gay? I mean, I don't mind but I at least thought I rubbed off on you—"

"Just drop it, geezer."

Beside him, Nanjiroh let out a soft chuckle. Ryoma sighed, opting to remain silent.

"I miss her." The old man lightly laughed as he turned to him. "Your mother." He said. His gaze was blank as his mind focused on a single image, a beauty that had aged gracefully beside him only to leave. For the nth time that night, to settle his nerves, Nanjiroh sighed with a lengthy quivering breath. His old face settled into a longing expression amidst the curve on his lips. Ryoma turned away and felt a miserable prickling sensation flood his chest.

"I miss her too." He softly uttered, his throat drying slightly. He groaned inwardly when he felt his eyes sting. Silence ensued for some long time after. Both men did their best to deal with their silent turmoil.

"Well." Nanjiroh said minutes after as he rubbed his eyes. "I'm heading in."

"Hn." His son nodded, still refusing to acknowledge the moistness of his cheeks as he turned away from his father's gaze. "Good night."

Nanjiroh patted his son's head before returning to his room.

That night, Ryoma stayed still on his spot for hours, finding himself staring blankly into space. And he only decided to return to his father's room when he was told so by a nurse who had been walking by.

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The following morning, Ryoma was back on his feet, up and running (literally). He was speeding along the corridors and back into the room his father had just been released from. Apparently, his old man had failed to inform him about one particular matter.

A rather _sensitive_ manner really.

On his crazy frenzy to get to the room as fast as possible, he nearly knocked over a couple of patients. This earned him quite a number of curses and a rather deafening "Watch it!" from a nurse running in from the opposite direction. Finally he halted in front of the room and pushed past the glass door. He was greeted by a blinding white light the moment he got in. Choosing to blink the rays blurring his vision, he continued hastily into the room. He dropped to his knees in front of the table beside the hospital bed. His line of sight levelled its drawers. And his bright eyes keened in search.

"Um."

_Seriously_. He thought to himself exasperated as he pulled open a drawer. What was his idiot father _thinking_? Was he that _sick_ (pun-intended)? In what universe does a hospitalized man get the energy to snuff porn from staff? Where was his _shame_? Did he stuff it into Ryoma's system so that he'd feel none while the other would frighteningly have it doubled?

The insensitive _git_.

His old man was a moronic insensitive twad of a father. And a _sick_ one to boot.

He actually was ready with the lecture he would be giving his father after the deed was done. It would be a long _long_ session about the values of decency, respect, and humility. Plus, a whack to the head to make sure the lecture stuck.

And to _think_ he had stayed in the same room for over a _week_.

Disgusting.

Ryoma would have been mortified had anyone found the dreadful magazines. Because, of course, by default, which had happened quite a number of times already, said anyone would think that the dirty magazines belonged to a certain libido-induced young man, in his prime, up and out exploring his sexuality. They could not be more wrong. First off, he was not foul, disgusting, and disrespectful. Second, he did not need exploring. He has enough experience, thank you very much. He did not need horrid images to help him figure out the ways of his manhood. And lastly, people uninvolved should just bugger off.

It was a few seconds later, after several slams, that Ryoma came to realize he was not alone in the room. In the middle of cussing and stuffing miscellaneous other items he found inside the drawer, he heard shuffling. He looked behind him. His eyes widened slightly when he found himself looking back into a pair of inquisitive hazel eyes, embarrassed from having been caught. In one fluid motion, he zipped his pack and stood up. His face was expressionless but his whole being was frazzled.

"My father just forgot something." He said. His cheeks reddened slightly when the lady (who apparently had been cleaning the room) nodded to him, casting him a suspicious eye.

"Okay." She voiced out lightly before turning about to continue her work. Nodding, Ryoma returned to his garbling, his slamming, and his muddled packing of various unmentionables. He groaned when he finally found the mother load (his father's supposedly hidden stash). And his cheeks could only redden at the number of the magazines staring back at him. "Do you need any help?"

"No thanks." Was Ryoma's immediate reply. He still had to arrange the damn pieces of rubbish to get them all to fit in the bag his father threw him. After a few seconds of silence, one which rendered the ticking of the clock louder than anything else, a mortifying realization came crashing down on him. His eyes warily turned to the quite girl clearing out the room. "By any chance, did you happen to open the drawers?" He asked her suspiciously, gesturing around the room with a finger. The lady shook her head in answer almost immediately. And when she did, Ryoma's eyes thinned in knowing.

"Really?" Ryoma repeated snidely, testing her. The nurse remained firm in her reply and looked him in the eye, restating what she had already told him.

"Yes, really."

Ryoma scoffed to himself.

Bloody liar.

He wanted to cuss at her in irritation. Honestly, who did she think she was sparing with that lie?

"If you say so." Ryoma said blandly instead. Then he resumed his packing while the words big fat liar repeated in his head.

"And for your information," The nurse started suddenly. "not that it involves you personally. Porn is highly degrading."

In an instant, Ryoma spun around and furiously glared at the woman.

"You did see it!" He hissed, pointing a finger at her. His cheeks were red. The pale-faced lady flushed in color, her brows knitting together in subtle anger.

"Of course I did! How could I miss them? They were on the bloody table!" She cried out. "And to think you're being idolized around the globe amidst such behavior. People like you sicken me!"

"Yeah? Well, nosy and _assuming_ people like you sicken _me_!"

At this, the lady noticeably stiffened.

"Assuming? What else is there to make of this?" She whined.

"Well, for one, you shouldn't be snooping around about the business of other people." Ryoma gritted, walking towards her, disdain written on his handsome face, and swiped the magazine on the table. "And secondly," He turned to glare at her. He was now only a foot away. "You," Then his brow lifted in question at the sight of the woman before him. "Look ghastly. Are you alright? You look deathly pale."

Flustered, the lady stepped back.

"I am." She hastily told him. She lifted the white bed sheet over her face as she attempted to both fold it while effectively using it to cover her face. "I'm just a tad bit sick."

"_Sick_?" Ryoma repeated in disbelief. "Then why the hell are you even working? Are you really _that_ stupid?"

In an instant, the lady lowered the sheet covering her face to glare at the young man before her. And then she told him in a hiss.

"I'm _not_ contagious and stupid. So, shut up and leave."

Ryoma's face soured. Then turning, packed the last of the magazines. When he was done, he waved off to the nurse and went on his way, grumbling as he did. And the moment he saw his father, instead of whacking him on the head as he had initially planned, he just gave the man a hearty glare before showing the pack that contained his vile magazines. Nanjiroh applauded his son. Nay! He worshipped him for a job well done. He had gestured for Ryoma to give him the pack with a hungry perverted glow in his eyes that made his trooper son shudder. Ryoma returned his gaze with a foul scowl. And he walked over to one of the huge trash bins in the parking lot. Before Nanjiroh could follow what was going on, Ryoma had already dumped his precious cargo into the rubbish bin.

That midday, as Ryoma silently drove home, Nanjiroh was crying his heart out like a child who had their toys donated to sick old homeless dudes.

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Review? :)


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